


What's In His Heart

by PaulaMcG



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Bay City Rollers, Canon Divergence, Friendship, James and Lily in Tiny Roles, Kissing, London, Love, M/M, Meeting the Parents, POV Wise and Eloquent House-Elf OC, Remus and Sirius Are Seventeen, Remus's Parents OCs, Rowling's First Five Books Compliant, Summer Vacation, countryside, tentative sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21872950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/pseuds/PaulaMcG
Summary: In July after his sixth Hogwarts year, Remus brings Sirius to his childhood home.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 1





	What's In His Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Remus and his friends and family will never help me make any money. This piece can stand on its own, but it also belongs to the same extensive story in my Rowling's-first-five-novels-compliant universe as the rest of my fanfiction.

I resort to flapping my ears when picking my way across our strawberry patch. No shade of an apple tree reaches here in the afternoon, and after the brief thunderstorm the relentless heat has returned, only more oppressive due to the humidity.

There’s no hard work to exhaust me, though. Each of the finest strawberries – after my combined senses have detected it – picks itself into the basket, which a thought in the back of my mind keeps levitating. It’s actually a pleasure to smell and feel the sweat running down my chest. Smiling, I glance down to see this moisture change the shade of white in my favourite embroidered pillowcase, the one sewn by Master William himself.

As an elf I could easily transcend all this, and at any moment inhabit the most blissful reality. It is fully alive in the rhythms of my blood and my breaths: the ideal temperature, the softest caress of air, the gentlest sunlight.

But after what I’ve shared with these humans and part-humans, that would feel lacking – almost like nothing. We who have chosen to serve revel in accepting these challenges. My existence is at its most meaningful when young master is at home for me to connect with.

While he’s further away, I can’t see what’s in his heart right now: I only know all that he’d ever been through until the last time he left. But we’re expecting him any moment, since he agreed with Dame Philomela about two nights in London.

“That’ll be enough,” he said. And he thought: At least I finally get to see the flat he bought in June, also to stay overnight. And it’s even better to have more time together with him here – a whole week before the full moon. My dream since last summer finally coming true. 

The basket has filled with sweet-smelling berries. Thanks to my magic’s protection they’ve only gained more freshness and suffered no harm in the pouring rain.

Approaching the house, I choose to see it with the eyes of the city boy with a troubled past in a haughty, bigoted family. My master’s introduced him to what grows from the earth, and I trust he’ll be fascinated by the whole Bagendon area and by this estate. And certainly by the main building of the Wotton manor.

He’ll make light of its resemblance with the surrounding hills, just admire the peculiar cosiness of the roof covered with growing grass and moss, the eaves sweeping almost to the ground above the low windows, and the thick walls formed of boulders of stone. He’ll appreciate the space, comforts and privacy offered by the less ancient wings.

Oh, this firm elm door as well. My thought touches it, and it opens to let the basket in. Stopping at the threshold, I remember the green-glazed clay bowl, and it arrives on the oak dining table for the strawberries to move into cautiously.

My master and his sweetheart will see this offering as the first thing when they step out of the huge fireplace in the middle of the room. With a glance I check that everything in our main hall looks welcoming: the velvet cushions fluffed on the benches by the walls, the bookshelves illuminated well enough for the golden letters to gleam on the spines of the thick volumes in our impressive collection of knowledge and wisdom, and two of the oak chairs pulled out to encourage the two of them to sit down at the table. 

It may not even occur to Sirius Black to take up what my master told him almost two years ago: that as a werewolf he is no legal son and won’t inherit this or anything. Himself he’s been disowned, having rejected a remarkable property – because of his principles, or because he just couldn’t bear how he was treated, and how had been violated as a child in his parents’ house. Like my master he’s young – while they think they are old enough, living their first summer as adults – and eager to make his own fortune, independent.

But now he’s accepted a will, after all, from an uncle – whom, alive, he resented, too – and he’s rich again, more arrogant perhaps, as well. It’s good I get to check him out first-hand. Although that won’t tell me whether he’ll cause my master more happiness or sorrow.

Here they are: green flames have flashed high in the hearth. I move just inside the room but leave the door open behind me for the ideal lighting and for wafts of fragrant air. Against the dazzling day they’ll see only the silhouette of my small figure, with the wide ears as the most striking feature of this humble, even ridiculous form we adopt among mortals.

He is beautiful. And mind, this first glance, like always, was reserved for my master. His tanned face, framed by sun-bleached hair, has not paled with fatigue, and his eyes have only brightened to merrier shine, although he’s not slept much in London. How could he possibly have slept? All of those two days and nights were not passed in lovers’ embrace, but they were anyway his first taste of what young humans crave to explore and enjoy on the borderlines of the magic and Muggle worlds, when freed from their teachers and parents, and having still not committed themselves to any serious cause of their own. At the first glance I read it in his heart – with the pun included: what he’s committed to is this Sirius.

And Sirius Black truly is handsome. More mesmerising than in those few pictures my master has shown to me in his album with the puppy photograph on the cover. Less similar to him, of course, than I hoped when first looking at those two identical cocker spaniel puppies, their golden snouts.

There’s cold fire in this dark star: defiance hiding insecurities as deep as my master’s, I’m afraid. Unlike my master, he’s wearing Muggle clothes: only a tight white vest and knee-length trousers. He takes a long and sure but slow step out of the fireplace, flicks stray black tendrils from his eyes with an impatient jerk of his head, and stands very straight, scanning the room. Having registered no one else present, he acknowledges my master’s touch on his arm, and glances at him with a smile. And the hopeful warmth of that smile almost banishes all my reservations as it’s filling my master’s heart with joy.

My master’s hardly managed to look away from his Sirius, but now he’s smelled the strawberries. “See how welcome you are here!” He gestures towards the table and makes the nearly silvery-light gaze turn that way, too, while he stealthily slides the other sadly scarred hand down the strong arm until their fingers entwine.

Hand in hand they step to the head of the table, and here my master says, “I hope you’re ready to meet Gumby.”

Whenever I’m near, he can feel it. I don’t think he’s ever wondered why, as it’s been like this as long as he can remember – since he was five, and this life of his began: Remus Lupin’s. And he doesn’t know why he’s so tempted to break the rules of convention when his parents aren’t around – not that they’d scold him; they, too, have got used to regarding me as a member of the family, albeit for different reasons, like any creatures who belong to Dame’s theatre troop.

“Gumby, come here!” he orders, still conventionally.

But when I’ve walked to him, tilting my head and – simply because I truly can’t help sharing his joy – winking, which often makes him laugh due to the size of my round green eyes, he bends to hug me. No, he gives me only a half-hug. Of course, that’s more than a house-elf should get. And there is actually more closeness offered to me by his holding his sweetheart’s hand while greeting me.

He’s not considering the protocol of introductions, which conventionally shouldn’t include house-elves at all. He just naturally introduces me as a host to his guest. “Sirius, I’m so glad you can now meet Gumby. And Gumby, this is Sirius Black.”

Yes, he is charming. He bows to me, holding out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you…” He grins, and adds in a lower voice, “Remus’s secret brother.”

“Not completely secret any longer, I see. But I’m only happy the two of you don’t keep secrets from each other. In turn, my master has told me what you mean to him.”

He raises his undeniably graceful brows, visibly amazed by my diction. But he responds fluently in the same polite tone, smartly taking the opportunity to seek my support in their disagreement, which I’ve already seen behind my master’s joy.

“I trust you’ll understand that I’d rather not talk openly about all that to Remus’s parents,” he says, letting go my hand and my master’s as well.

“Of course.” I do understand that he wishes my master had not told me either – not knowing that nothing could remain hidden from me.

“But they would approve!” My master assumes I’ve already agreed with his Sirius. “Why not let them know?”

“Some precious things are best kept private.” I’d like to compare their love to my connection with him, but he thinks it’s been only a childhood game. “Perhaps at first, in any case, it’s enough for Dame Philomela and Master William to know that their guest is another special friend who’s become an Animagus for you.”

“All right.” My master frowns, but he’s determined not to let anything spoil the wonder of this moment. “Pads, sit down!” he orders.

Chuckling, they settle on the chairs opposite to each other, Sirius facing the door.

“Taste the strawberries! They…” Pausing for a deep contented sigh, my master feasts his eyes on this gorgeous rebel, thrilled by the sight of his Sirius’s handsome features and broad shoulders – bare, too – against the background of this ancient room, in the setting of a childhood spent dreaming of true friends. “Gumby’s made these ones wait and ripen only for your visit. Gumby, have a seat, you, too!”

“Thank you, Master Remus!” I conjure a high stool for myself. “But perhaps I should first put on a sheet over this pillowcase. It’s so much cooler in here than in the garden.”

“Oh, I almost forgot...” Sirius Black pulls out his wand – beech, and long: thirteen inches – and points it to the hearth, flicking; yes, it is supple.

A small Victorian travelling box slides to him and opens up. In a surprisingly humble gesture, he kneels down to take out his gift without magic. “Remus said you might like this to wear as a pallium.”

It’s a large tablecloth of finest vanilla-coloured linen decorated with reticella lace.

Bowing, I receive the cloth from his hands, and I wrap it deftly around myself. “What an exquisite handicraft! I have to wonder if it can possibly be an heirloom.”

“No, although I’d be happy to present you with one, were I still an heir. This cloth was chosen with Remus’s assistance in an antiques shop.”

Fortunately my master’s watching me to see how well the choice of gift pleases me. I catch his eyes and twitch my head slightly while tapping the folds of the cloth on my both shoulders. I can read the realisation in his mind.

“Sirius, you, too, could wear more since it’s cool in here.” He isn’t less discreet, just a bit more direct than I’ve been.

Sirius Black is definitely not stupid, whereas he may be foolish enough to plan to demonstrate his rebelliousness to his lover’s parents. And he isn’t embarrassed, either, when he understands what we’re hinting at.

He laughs and digs out a set of neat navy blue summer robes. When he stands up straight, dressed like a respectable wizard, I deliberately nod my approval to him.

“If you don’t mind, I’m now going to inform Dame Philomela and Master William of your arrival. I assume they’ll Apparate here to welcome you in a moment.” Without waiting for a response, I shift to the Old Place, to Dame’s side on the stage, where she’s leading the rehearsal.

“Here you’re singing your blessing to the united couples and their future children. All sweet, festive!” Dame Philomela raises her arms in front of the row of our four half-veelas, and they copy her moves.

Although these fragile creatures, too, blossom in this season, she stands tall and strong compared with them. As she lifts her chin in a dramatic gesture, her golden-brown locks escape from the knot at the nape of her neck and stream down her back, shining in tones of copper against the fabric of her robes, which I’ve dyed her best summer colour, apple green, using purple blooms of foxglove – called witch’s glove, fittingly, by her when she concocts her most potent potion for some half-human’s heart failures. 

She recites, “Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar/ Nor mark prodigious… That means ominous, and here I want an undertone, a reminder of tragedy. Yes?”

When lowering her hazel eyes to me, she presents a benign smile. But I know that she regards seeing her son and his friend without delay only as an obligation, and her heart’s remained in the story and in how to evoke the fictional world in the audience’s minds. 

“I’ve welcomed Master Remus and Sirius Black in our main hall.”

“Good. How are they?”

“Safe and sound, and happy, both of them. And the guest has demonstrated some of the good side in his upbringing: eloquence, politeness, generosity.” I finger the folds of my pallium, but neither of us mentions it.

“We’ll see… I’m coming over to see them in a minute. The little that Remus has told me about this Sirius troubles me. I understand he’s repudiated his elitist family’s bigoted views and policies, even before they disowned him. But I rather wish Remus directed all that admiration – even devotion – to a friend more balanced and reliable.” Her gaze has wandered over the half-painted scenes, but now she pulls herself together. “All right. You can go to William now.”

I find him in the middle of the orchard, supervising the thinning of fruit in our apple trees.

His eyes like open skies focus fully on me as soon as he’s heard the cracking sound with which I announce my arrival. “Hello, Gumby! So our young man’s at home. And has he brought his special friend?”

“Yes, the two of them are waiting in our main hall, enjoying our strawberries.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Gumby.” There’s gentle curiosity in Master William’s voice, as he continues, when turning and starting to walk slowly towards the house, “Can you tell me about your first impressions?”

“Charming: Sirius Black is even more charming than I expected. A well-mannered rebel.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. Perhaps he isn’t very different from that Potter boy, who charmed Philomela and me a year ago.”

He is. Just the little they knew last year – actually since Christmas at the end of the year before – was enough to warn at least Dame Philomela. My master had not revealed the worries about this friend of his to his mother or father, but…

As I haven’t replied, Master William goes on pondering aloud, “Of course, we know and respect that boy’s parents, whereas this one’s…”

When Mrs Potter sent an owl asking whether my master would like to participate in arranging a charity Christmas dinner for homeless creatures, his parents were happy to let him travel by Floo to Godric’s Hollow – and he came back late, so shocked by what had happened to Sirius Black that he couldn’t hide his emotions. Since then the Potters have acted as parents for the disowned Black heir. But his past can’t be undone. And my master has enough troubles of his own. He was not allowed to go to Godric’s Hollow at the following Christmas, even though the charity feast took place as many as four days before the full moon. Now Dame Philomela and Master William have more than a tiny bit of further reason for concern: what Dumbledore’s told only them about the so-called Willow Incident. Sirius Black is reckless, unbalanced, and he has hurt their son and could easily have hurt and harmed him more fatally.

I can’t possibly reveal what I know about my master’s feelings. Instead… “This boy’s parents have caused him a lot of pain and perhaps permanent harm. But I sense he’s more than fond of Master Remus – and perhaps, still, capable of love.”

That notion may cause concern as well as relief, and Master William stops at a couple of yards’ distance from the open doorway. But as soon as I’ve hushed, I can hear laughter: the two of them chortling softly. And then a complex strident whistle.

“It wasn’t meant to be blackbird. Mistle thrush! It’s supposed to be harsh.”

“All right. Then it’s the spirit that counts.” My master’s tender voice is followed by the sound of a kiss.

Master William shakes his head but smiles, then whistles a well-defined mellow phrase: the theme from his first concerto for flute, inspired by birdsong.

“Blackbird! No, I was wrong again. That’s Dad!”

At this moment Dame Philomela Apparates on the treshold, and I’m glad my master’s just got the warning. While Master William’s hurrying to his wife’s side, I leave him, turning left.

Heading to the west wing, to my master’s room across the yard, I cherish the moment alone. The trampled soil’s hot under my bare feet. It’s already dried in the sun, but the scents of the resilient plants are still stronger than before the downpour.

These broadleaf plantains are too tough, not young enough for a salad, but I’ll summon some later for Dame’s basic wound-healing potion. I want to make some anise grow for her most elaborate soothing ointment, although we’ve got no scales of Irish Ironshield left. She won’t say that we can’t afford ordering them by owl, because we must be prepared.

At the end of last summer she was taken unawares when our cat was not enough of a company and my master wounded himself again. I should have predicted it – even though I can’t reach the wolf’s experience, just as he himself can’t, and back then I, too, had got only James Potter’s first statement to reassure us that their shared full-moon night had been calm and pleasant. There was no doubt my master was dying to have a friend visit four weeks and eight weeks later, too, and got sorely disappointed. By the end of August he was distressed: in turns worried about his Sirius’s safety, and scared that he’d assessed this friend wrong, after all – that there would never be such intimacy the two of them had started slowly approaching.

Now he’s accepted all the excuses. James Potter’s, too: for setting the wolf run free last July, without asking for my master’s view, let alone permission, and for telling him only when back at Hogwarts. And Sirius Black’s: not only for the absence last summer, but also for exposing him at the February full moon to a Slytherin student who can hardly be trusted.

Thanks to James Potter, even then the werewolf mauled only himself. More terribly than ever. Even in his face, but his parents don’t know that. By the time they got to the Hogwarts hospital wing to see him, there was no sign of those select wounds which had been healed first with the strongest magic to prevent all scarring.

They don’t know about James Potter’s reckless act a year ago. But Sirius Black sent them a letter of apology as soon as on the morning after February full moon: written in his detention and compliant with Dumbledore’s cover story for all outsiders – confessing that he’d dared their son as well as the Slytherin to go to the Willow, which had fortunately injured only one victim. And when they were at Hogwarts, he asked to talk to them alone and offered an almost full confession, also revealing more about the astonishing feat which he and his friends seem to have managed – ever more astonishingly – to hide from Dumbledore: he, like James Potter, has learnt to change shape so as to protect their son.

It’s not my place to be when they now meet again. He’ll be apologising anew with his slowly evolved comprehension that having become a dog, so as to be what my master needs, is not an excuse but an aggravation. And asking for their permission to stay for the full moon: to stay as a dog in the cellar room.

My master’s been so sure since more than a year ago that his parents will be only happy to hear about the nature of his closeness with Sirius. It’s true that we all approve of such relationships between any consenting grown-up creatures – except in his case only with a creature who knows what he is, and with whom there’s no risk of reproduction, and this wizard qualifies. But after February there are serious reservations against Sirius Black.

He’s agreed with my master that if he’s allowed to stay, they’ll truly stay inside even though they all – the third Animagus, the cowardy and brave rat Peter Pettigrew included – have exited the Shrieking Shack all through the past school year. I’m not supposed to know there’s any reason for suspicion, but this time I’ll stand in watch if he stays.

In case the permission is not given, I’ll try to conciliate. I doubt any human can reach the wolf’s mind, but perhaps this full-moon intimacy with his beloved Pads can lead both of them closer to finding some healing and a private sense of worth – which will help them in their struggles in the wider, unfair worlds.

While I’ve got all solemn in my speculations, I’ve stopped and absentmindedly torn off a flowerhead of a pineappleweed. I crush it in my fingers and breathe in the promising chamomile aroma, wishing I didn’t know that the taste has already turned bitter.

I’m sitting on the stone bench outside my master’s window, slowly summoning select plantains, leaf after leaf to a pile on the hem of my pallium, when I hear him enter from the corridor with his sweetheart. 

“Good job, Pads!” he says, closing the door and pinning the gorgeous youth against it.

I’ve immediately gained the knowledge of how very well the meeting’s gone. So as to distract my mind from this moment’s sensations on his skin, I try to focus on his memory of the conversation in the main hall.

I didn’t mean to intrude on his privacy like this. I’ve been fully aware of his desire, but my flawed skills of foretelling have failed me once again.

His fingers are tingling when pushing the fine fabric of the robes from his Sirius’s shoulders. But because the troubled childhood has barely allowed this rebel to start gradually learning to accept caresses on his bare skin, my master checks his impulses and waits instead of initiating more.

I, too, must restrain myself. But the temptation is too strong now. I haven’t dwelt on the details in his earlier memories of physical intimacy. Yet, for the first time ever he’s living such a moment while I’m connecting with him, and I’m compelled to feel vividly also the recent embraces in the London flat.

Lying next to his beloved on a thick, soft carpet; watching the light and half-light shift on the tanned shoulder, as the breeze from the tall window flutters the white gossamer veil of a curtain; sliding a palm along the curve of the waist and hip, over the scanty clothes, and almost daring to sneak a finger under the hem of the shirt; finally holding the strong body tight in his arms while quickened breathing, then moist lips brush his ear.

Now a hand is lifted on his left shoulder. He can’t help letting out a gasp, and feeling a sting of resentment, as at this moment he’d rather forget that, at the beginning of the only life he remembers, he was deformed with this rough jagged scar which still feels like a fresh wound. But the fingers move cautiously under his robe and start caressing his skin as if it were whole and healthy, beautiful, with no blemish at all. The luminous eyes remain fixated at his face, and a thumb has settled to stroke the corner of his mouth. Now the beloved face is suddenly tilted, and closer, out of focus – now the thumb replaced by sweet lips.

Not out of amazement, but purposefully, he parts his lips just a bit when their mouths touch. This time his invitation is accepted, and the tongue…

I mustn’t sense it with him. But the earlier sensation is the only memory I’m rearching. While lying on that carpet: the amazement, his lips parting, making Sirius’s mouth tremble, hesitate, then stay still against his, and the two of them are sharing a bitter taste of cigarettes. He starts jerking off, and Sirius moves a bit apart, keeps staring at his face, and places a hand, heavy and hot, on his bare waist in turn. He…

I mustn’t. There’s something on the edges of that experience: the sound my master was focused on earlier – Muggle radio, which Sirius has been proud to introduce to him, as a part of this half-magical, half-Muggle life made possible by Uncle Alphard’s will.

And just when he’s ejaculated, they hear that song start again: It's a teenage dream to be seventeen/ And to find you're all wrapped up in love. They both burst into laughter.

That’s the hit now played all the time on the radio – a song simple enough for even James to learn to sing parts of. Just a few hours ago – after the dog, on a leash, had taken my master for a walk in Middle Temple Gardens and along the Thames, and they had returned to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to find James and Lily waiting – they listened to the radio, all four of them together, while preparing icy drinks, and James, proud in turn, introduced that song to Lily, who’s been their guide to Muggle music.

“That’s sweet,” Lily said, and rewarded James with a smile and a kiss on the nose. “But I hope you won’t start wearing calf-length tartan trousers like the other fans – the little girls who’re in love with the cute boys in this band.”

And here’s finally the fresh memory. Master William complimenting Sirius’s birdsong imitation.

“Thank you. Your son has managed to teach me to whistle some melodies. Also to recognise some plants and…”

But Master William, even though a herbologist and a farmer, too, is more curious about this special friend’s interest in music, which is his own passion. “Can you sing, too?”

“I hope I’ll learn more. But so far I sing only simple songs together with Remus. Or more poorly by myself.” And he spreads his arms and sings, “And when the sun comes shining through/ We'll know what to do.”

Now my master’s all spent, and he’s guided his Sirius by hand to one of the two narrow beds, which I’ve arranged so that they can sleep close but not too close to each other, just like in the Hogwarts dormitory. He settles to slouch against the wall, with some pillows behind his back and taps his thighs until he gets the graceful head in his lap.

He’s singing only in his mind: And I know one day that I'll find the way/ To be safe and sound within your heart.

Turning to lie on his side, facing the room, Sirius lets his gaze wander over the walls.

But my master just goes on stroking the black locks in silence. He doesn’t expect any comment on the paintings. Here there’s no audience to which Sirius would need to ridicule the sheer number of them – covering almost every surface, some hung up close to the ceiling, some standing on the floor – trying to hide how much he encourages his friend to draw and paint, even though he sees more value in the originals of nature, newly found by him, than in their images. Later, my master’s planning, he’ll point out which pictures are new, painted by him around Easter and now after the summer term, with the oils Sirius bought for him, having got rich again. There’s the one of the dog, the stag and the rat. And a landscape with the sheep shed and pastures, which they can go to see in original, once the day has cooled towards sunset. Perhaps tomorrow they’ll Apparate to the theatre and Sirius could even assist in painting the half-finished scenes on the stage. 

“I think even my mother now really likes you,” he says suddenly. “You charmed them both with your proud humility.”

“I tried my best to be serious,” Sirius says, and he can’t help laughing. And he can’t stop, having turned on his back so as to stare into my master’s eyes.

“You were. You apologised beautifully.” You are. Beautiful, too. And you also really like it all here, I know. You are at home, just as I wished.

No, I won’t stand in watch. I’ll just make this beautiful Sirius promise to come for the next full moon, too, and if needed, I’ll go to London or Godric’s Hollow or wherever he is, and make him come. I’ve seen enough and more than I should.

Folding the lacy hem around the potion ingredients, not wanting to waste them in any case, I stand up so as to leave these two lovebirds alone.

The connection is a confusing, pleasurable burden. Sometimes I wonder what service it can possibly be. My master can’t know anything about it, beyond the sense that here he never needs to be alone. Perhaps its value was that as a child, despite his monthly ordeal and the growing understanding of what it meant and how it set him apart from those merely human, he still had a brother and could believe that he’d have others who’d fully accept and love him. 

All I know is that the secret subversive magic of the elves emerges when the establishment of wizards starts persecuting one of their own who’s also one we’ve committed to serving. That’s why the connection appeared soon after my master was bitten.

He doesn’t want to sadden and burden his parents anymore. When he came home for Easter, two weeks after his coming-of-age visit to the Werewolf Registry, he managed to hide from everyone but me: despite what Dumbledore arranged six years ago, he’s been officially labeled sub-human, with no status of wizard. He finds it hard to set his hopes on Dumbledore, who’s mentioned studies in Oxford. Only those friends who know – four of them now – can make him still believe he’s got a chance, but he doesn’t want to depend on their support either.

Perhaps someday our closeness will serve him further. Perhaps not, and he’ll move on, away from us, and I’ll miss my brother.

**Author's Note:**

> The phrase “Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar/ Nor mark prodigious…” is from Act 5 Scene 1 of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare. The lines “It's a teenage dream to be seventeen/ And to find you're all wrapped up in love”, “And when the sun comes shining through/ We'll know what to do” and “And I know one day that I'll find the way/ To be safe and sound within your heart” are from the song Give a Little Love by the Bay City Rollers – a hit which was the number-one single in UK for three weeks in July 1975.
> 
> In my Rowling’s-first-five-novels-compliant universe Remus’s both parents are from magical families, their surname (and Remus’s original name) is not Lupin, and they live in Bagendon, in the Cotswolds. My Marauders were born in 1957 and 1958, and this story about the summer after their sixth Hogwarts year and after the Willow Incident (often called the Prank in the fandom) is set in July 1975.


End file.
